


Humanity

by AnselaJonla



Series: Prompt fills [26]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 23:24:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19778608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnselaJonla/pseuds/AnselaJonla
Summary: A fic written for a prompt on the r/WritingPrompts subreddit:[WP] The armies of darkness had been spotted days ago, coming ever closer to the kingdoms of men out of the dreadlands. However, when the evil army arrives, they don’t ask for surrender; they beg for help.





	Humanity

All my life I've been told that those who dwell in the Dreadlands are monsters. They're twice the size of men, and ten times as strong, more cunning than a fox and greedier than a pig. All they do is murder and steal from the kingdoms of men. They're more beast than man, and all any loyal soldier of the kingdom should ever do if they encounter one is kill them before they can slaughter their way through our lands.

I'm not a soldier though. I'm a farmer. Just a simple farmer, called from my home to defend it against the oncoming hordes. The real soldiers, the king's men with proper arms and armour, are still days away. No one had expected the armies of the dreadlands to appear on our borders. All we usually see these days, ever since the late King Verence slew the Dread King before succumbing to his own wounds, is small raiding parties that vanish as quickly as they appear. I've never even _seen_ one of the monsters of the Dreadlands.

They don't look like monsters though. They don't look twice my size, with ten times my strength, and filled with cunning or greed. There's no cavalry mounted on pitch black horses, like in the stories told by the veterans. No archers with arrows that blacken the flesh and cause you to rot while still living. They look smaller than us. Skinnier. Some of them look as if they can barely hold their weapons. Many of them are mere _children_ , to my eyes.

I'm not the only one to have noticed. There's muttering up and down the lines. Some of the other farmers, those with children of their own safe on their farms, are muttering dire curses at those who would send babes into battle. The ranger captain who mustered us is riding up and down, laying the flat of his sword to the backs of the loudest complainers, trying to quell the growing mutiny, but all he's doing is fanning the flames.

Their lines come to a shambling halt, just outside of arrow range. Not that we have any real archers among us. No longbowmen are stationed this far out, so we just have a few hunters with bows designed for a much shorter range. Not that the Dreadlands forces know that. All they can see is an army ranged against them, one that probably looks far more dangerous to their eyes than they do to ours.

I don't know if I can raise my spear against a child.

One of them strides forwards, with two others stumbling behind. The captain is still busy trying to keep order among us, and doesn't notice the envoy. He'd probably just tell one of the hunstmen to shoot him anyway. I feel myself being shoved forwards, hear others tell me to go. I'm one of the oldest here, and my farm is large enough to require me to employ others, making me one of the most experienced in handling men. While the captain is distracted, the other farmers want _me_ to speak with the Dreadlander.

I step out of the lines, towards the envoy. Two of my employees follow. I don't look round, but I know by the scuff of one's feet that I have the twins Trom and Sol, my inseparable pair of stablehands. As we get closer to the envoy, Sol curses under his breath. I agree with his reaction. It's a young woman, barely out of girlhood, and her escorts are boys even younger than her.

"Please," she says once we stop in front of her. I'm surprised to hear that she speaks our tongue, albeit with an accent. "Please. We not want fight. We beg help, from your people."

I can hear yelling from behind me now. The captain has noticed the parlay, and is trying to get through to join us. The girl looks panicked and drops to one knee.

"I beg you. Please, help us. We not here for fight." The captain gasps behind me as he hears that statement. "We sick, weak. We have hunger. Our king took all men and boys who could hold spear. None came back. None worked fields. None looked after animals. Those left did what could, but not enough. Then rain not come. Plants not grow."

The captain is a veteran of that war, I remember. He often boasts in the inn of how many Dreadlanders he slew in that _'glorious'_ battle. I've listened to them often enough, sometimes even buying him a drink as encouragement. I feel slightly sick now, thinking about it.

"We try take food, but not enough. We still weak, still not able to work fields. We decide come ask help. My mother village elder. She tell me lead older children get help."

Trom and Sol are praying now. They fought in that battle themselves, though they never talk about it. Trom came back crippled, unable to fully move his left leg. I think that, no matter what the captain says, I will be losing my stablehands to this Dreadlander girl.

The far-sighted among our men will have seen by now what I see, and will have told the others. Few of the Dreadlanders have any real weapons. Most of them carry farming tools, which can be deadly in the right hands, but not these ones. These _children_ are too small and weak to be a threat to us. Even the few with real swords don't look strong enough to use them right.

I see the captain deflate on his horse, and a flicker of relief crosses his face for an instant. Was he as reluctant to fight as us?

"I cannot promise anything," he intones gravely, "but I can order your... men fed from our supplies, for now, while I send a message to King Roald about this... situation."

I'm not sure if the girl understood the entirety of the statement, but she seemed to get the gist of it, brightening up at the mention of food. Feeding this rabble until the king arrived would stretch _our_ supplies to their limit, but even if we had to tighten our belts for a few days we'd still be eating better than these children had for a while, from the sounds of it.

Sol skitters back over to our side of the field, leaving Trom behind in his haste to tell everyone to lower their weapons, that the Dreadlanders came for aid not battle. A few barked words in the Dreadlands tongue sees one of the envoy's assistants scurries off in the other direction, presumably to tell the other children the good news. The captain dismounts from his horse, probably feeling silly sitting so high above the rest of us. I realise I forgot something rather important. My mother would be smacking me over the head right now, for my lack of manners.

"What is your name?" I ask the envoy.


End file.
